To His Violin
I found you, abandoned
in the attic of my boyhood home,
your broken bridge, rusting strings
a testimony to disregard.
When had you last sung?
In what year did he
last hold you
in his loving hands?
Can you sing me a song
of my lost father,
of the times you had together ―
the long dead maestro,
you, his prima donna.
When did he last place you
in your case,
where you have waited
in aging velvet
until gently lifted
from that grave resting place,
and I stroked your strings.
If I were to raise your frayed bow
touch so lightly those strings,
would you whisper why
he lost interest
left you longing in your case?
What was his new love
that led to this estrangement?
What ruled him,
that nothing else mattered ―
his music, his family?
Sing me a song
Of my lost father,
of the times you had together.
Tell me of his passion.
Whisper his secrets
that I may understand.
